


The Promposal

by Darkmagyk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Prom, and actually in college, but Sansa is eighteen so it isn't weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkmagyk/pseuds/Darkmagyk
Summary: When her ex-boyfriend and ex-friend asked Sansa Stark who she was going to prom with, she probably shouldn’t have said Aemon Targaryen. Because Aemon Targaryen is the second son of business man/pop star Rhaegar Targaryen and was recently named by four different teen magazines' as one of the most eligible men under 21 in Westeros.Sansa did not even have his phone number. It was all pretty embarrassing.But if she could find a way to snag him in time, it might be a prom night no one at Baelor Academy ever forgets, or at least that Sansa won't forget any time soon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It had been so long since I was in high school, guys. But here we are.
> 
> It is tagged, but I do want to say again that Sansa experiences bullying at the hands of classmates she once thought were her friends, including rumors and mean pictures (though not sexual pictures at all). Also, there are some references to high school relationship violence, because Joffrey. Sansa's in therapy and practicing self care, but the issues are on going.
> 
> Rating for the last chapter.

Sansa Stark hated the south. She had been repressing it for years now, but it was well and truly official. She hated stupid southerners and their stupid schools and their stupid dances.

She kind of hated herself too, for the time she’d spent begging to come to Baelor Academy. Boys in her family had always gone to Cassel, the oldest school for well to do boys in the North, and when it became co-ed just after she was born, her father figured that would be her destination as well, or else The White Harbor School, where her aunt had gone.

But the people of the most importance in the South went to Baelor. Not even her mother had managed Baelor. And Sansa wanted the best.

In fact, Sansa’s argument has been so successful, that both Sansa and Arya had been sent.

Arya had not even lasted a semester, but Sansa was just weeks away from graduating. And for most of her time here, it seemed lovely. Beautiful people and a beautiful place. King’s Landing was a city where dreams were made. Though Sansa’s dreams centered a lot around Joffrey Lannister and garden parties, she could always feel them in her grasp.

The fact that a year into their relationship she found Joffrey to be a cruel, petty, stupid, arrogant bully who she was terrified of was merely a small hiccup in their happily ever after. She would fix him, he would be grateful, and they would ride into the west together.

She had not fixed him. She’d gotten bruises on her arms from where he was always gripping her to tight and pulling her this way and that, and lost her virginity in the longest, most painful 3 minutes of her life in an empty study room for her trouble. Then she had been dumped for her roommate two days before end of term break after 3 years and a lot of shit together.

She’d spent most of that break at a therapist's office.

But she had also insisted on finishing the year at Baelor, despite her parents protests. It was senior years, she was so close to being finished all together. She would just not be run out right before the end. She was a Stark and she would endure. She’d only made a small concession of allowing her mother to pitch a fit at the dean until they’d given her a new roommate in the form of Jeyne Poole, the only other girl from North of the Neck around.

She had not guessed what it would be like when she returned. It was good to have Jeyne, whose family did business exclusively in the North and therefore did not mind pissing off southerners, because no one else wanted to talk to her anymore. She’d thought she’d been popular, she’d thought she’d had friends, but her social calendar cleared. No one spoke to her during student government meetings or the prom planning committee. No one wanted join her for lunch or dinner, and people only seemed to want to join her for group projects because they knew she’d do all the work herself if they just refused to do their share.

The rumors that began to circulate were cruel.

“Her family sent her here in desperation,” Margaery whispered, “You remember how wild her sister was, they were both like that up North, they sent them down to try and fix them. You remember what happened with Arya and the fighting, well; admit you’ve seen bruises on Sansa too.”

That she only made an A in Mr. Lannister’s class because she had gotten down on her knees for him, “She isn’t very good at it.” Joff laughed, “But my Uncle gets so little that he’ll take even her.”

High school could be sharp and cruel. But she held her head high, spent a lot of time with Jeyne, threw out all the acceptance letters from schools in the West and the Reach, and reminder herself that she was a Stark of Winterfell. Her family was older then this stupid school, and maybe one of these days she’d talk someone from home into bringing down Lady to eat Joffrey's face off. Neither Robb nor Arya would take a lot of convincing.

But it was hard. Not least because Margaery, who she’d have sworn not six months ago was her best friend, and Joffrey, who she’d declared the love of her life at the same time, seemed to reveal in rubbing her face in it.

They were all over each other in the halls, in the student lounges. Margaery liked to giggle with her cousins in the classes they shared about the gifts Joffrey had given her.

He use to give Sansa gifts too. Piling her high with lions payed for in Lannister gold. Sansa had always preferred wolves anyway. She’d told her family that having a bond fire for all of it, and posting it on Instagram, would have been petty.

But when Margaery took the wolf sleep shirt left in the room they once shared and cut it up for senior field day in a look she claimed was fashionable, Sansa decided she wished she had indulged in petty. Or at least given the 8 different stuffed lions to the direwolves to destroy, and sent an airdrop of the video of the ensuing carnage out to her classmates.

Jeyne tried to comfort her by remind her how terribly Joffrey had treated her, and that surely he was doing the same to Margaery.

And sometimes Sansa didn’t believe it, wondering if something about her had drawn that malice out of him.

But other times, she’d see Margaery flinch and know it was true. That it had to be.

And that didn’t bring any of the comfort Jeyne wanted to offer, and instead just made her feel worse, that Margaery couldn’t be helped, and that she was being so mean, and still Sansa felt bad for her.

But still, she tried to keep her head down, to do her school work, to finish the semester, and to not make a scene. And as the end of the year ticked by, it seemed to be working. Attempts to provoke her rarely went anywhere, her grades were as good as ever, and she got into the best schools in the North, Riverlands, and Vale. Who needed the stupid south?

It worked all the way to the final prom committee meeting, two weeks before the big day, and three weeks before the end of school, and Sansa’s escape.

The students had been left alone, and Margaery had used it as an excuse to crawl into Joffrey's lap. They were holding court at one end of the classroom while Sansa finished her AP Valyrian homework on the other, ignoring them until Margaery called to her.

It was the first time she’d addressed Sansa in a month, and so Sansa was on guard.

“We haven’t even talked about it, dear,” She cooed, “Who’s your date?”

“Everyone knows the only one who’d be willing to show their face with her’s is Jeyne Poole.” Joff sneered, “I’m sure you’ll make a savage, northern couple. Or do they burn your kind at the stake, there.”

It was the last point that did it. The last point that drove Sansa past the point of reason. She had, in truth, planned on going to the King’s Landing Hotel they were having the prom in, renting out a suit, and then ordering the entire room service menu, and watching that terrible medieval fantasy show on HBO, where all the characters are idiots, and they were cruel to women because ‘history.’ It had sounded like such a good idea when she’d pitched it to Jeyne. To hell with the party. 

She knew it was better than any idea that these people could have. She knew they were just trying to get a rise out of her. But still, something didn’t sit right, probably that the North had been the second of the seven kingdoms to pass marriage equality, and the Joffrey’s stupid West had come in dead last. She couldn’t just let them have it, let them win without a fight. So, in a fit of righteous fury and blinding passion, she said the dumbest thing that had ever left her mouth, “Oh, Aemon’s taking me.”

Then, in response to the slightly confused looks, continued, “Do you not know him? Aemon Targaryen. He doesn’t go to this school, he’s at University now, but he’s super excited to come and join me for prom.”

Everyone was too stunned to laugh at her assertion, and their advisor returned before anyone properly recovered, giving Sansa a chance to practically skip back to her room, pleased as punch at the brilliance of her lie.

She went to bed feeling very proud of herself.

She woke up full of regret. And when Jeyne wished her good morning, Sansa promptly burst into tears before explaining the lie she’d weaved the night before.

“You told them you were going to prom with Aemon Targaryen?” Jeyne bit her lip, looking a little horrified at Sansa’s gall, “Son of the Silver Prince of pop, Rhaegar Targaryen? Named to three different twenty-one under twenty-one most eligible guys lists?”

“Four,” Sansa said miserably. She’d seen one of the articles the morning before, it was why he was on her brain.

“That was…” Jeyne trailed off, clearly trying to think of a kind way to say stupid, “impulsive.”

Sansa sobbed again, she was specifically not supposed to be the impulsive member of the family. She buried her head between two of her pillows to block out the shame of the world. She was the one with manners and rationality and decorum. She was the one who rejected northern coarseness for southern chivalry. It was all so embarrassing. 

So deep was her distress, that she did not even notice that Jeyne had been doing something until she sat on Sansa’s bed, removed one of the pillows, and presented Sansa with her tablet opened to an unfamiliar webpage.

“What is this?” Sansa asked, her watery eyes and foggy brain not quit making sense of what she saw.

“Student directory for The Brain,” Jeyen explained. The Brain being Brandon Stark University at Queen’s Crown. It was the most selective University in the North, and owed its founding to Brandon the Brain, one of Sansa’s seemingly endless lists of Brandon ancestors. In the south it was normally called Stark University, but in the north it was invariably referred to as The Brain, and Sansa, despite her angst, was eternally grateful for Jeyne and the familiarity she offered. The school was a top contender for Sansa’s destination the coming school year, along with Gates of the Moon University, and if her mother had her way, Pink Maiden Women’s College. “This is where Aemon Targaryen goes to school.”

Sansa knew that. She did not know why it was relevant.

“We’re going to find his email address.”

“What?”

“His email address, we are going to find his student email address and send him a message.”

Sansa felt her cheeks heat scarlet, “We can’t do that,” she said. This on its own was terribly embarrassing, but the idea of sending him an email at school would only add insult to injury.

“No, he took part an anti-bullying campaigns last year.” Jeyne said, “Once you explain what’s been going on, I’m sure he’ll be happy to help.”

“Jeyne, no.” She would not only never be able to live this down at school, she was very soon not going to be able to live this down with her family either.

Jeyne was undeterred and simply removed the tablet form Sansa’s view, pecking away at the screen eagerly, before her face suddenly fell. “No results found.” She read dejectedly.

“Usually you can opted out of public directories,” Sansa said, “And for someone as high profile as him, he probably did that. My brother did it too.” At the same university, no less. “He’s making hottest singles lists; he can’t be reachable to everyone in the kingdoms. Let alone his dad’s crazy fans.”

Jeyne’s face broke into a grin, “He dad, he doesn’t have a twitter or insta or anything, but I know his dad does.” She began tapping away, and Sansa had to take matters into her own hands, literally, sitting up and grabbing the tablet away from Jeyne.

“You CANNOT tweet Rhaegar Targaryen about what happened in hopes of... what even are you hoping for.”

“I’m going to get him to go to prom with you, save face, and spite all the stupid southerners.” Jeyne declared, “And I’m going to tweet Rhaegar Targaryen to do it.”

“No,” Sansa said, “You aren’t. Because if anyone at school sees that my roommate tweeted at Rhaegar about this, I will be laughed out of campus.” She said, and she could take it, she wasn’t Joffrey, incapable of being made fun of. But if she could avoid it, she was going to. And this was very avoidable. 

Jeyne could see the point to that at least, “Maybe if I DM…”

“You can’t DM a twitter that’s probably run by his label and get taken seriously.” Sansa said, “Stalking anyone on social media is a bad idea, stalking someone’s family on social media is actually a good way to get labeled a stalker by authorities.”

Jeyne wondered back over to her bed with a dejected huff, and spent the rest of the morning trying and failing to make a suggestion on how to ensnare Aemon Targaryen to prom.

She had to leave eventually for her younger student mentorship program lunch, so Sansa headed to the dining hall herself.

She regretted it as soon as she stepped inside the building. The table closest to the door noticed her, it was a group of underclassmen she didn’t know. But they stopped talking immediately when they saw her, before quickly whispering among themselves and not letting her leave their sight.

Similar displays happened as she made her way to the food line, stares, silence, and then frantic whispers. She had not anticipated the spread of her little declaration so fully and quickly. And that the giggles that followed her all the way to an empty table against a wall would be the result.

She felt naive. She thought she’d shed that last semester.

Right as she started chew on her fourth or so bite, Margaery appeared. Joffrey was not with her, but her posse of cousins were.

“Maybe you haven’t heard, but Rhaegar Targaryen is known for his vegan activism. What would Aemon say if he say you eating that poor innocent cow.” She asked, and there was a flash from one of her cousin’s phones as she took a picture of Sansa, mouth full, cheeks puffed.

Sansa did actually have the perfect response to Margaery’s taunts, but her mouth was full, and her mother had more than succeeded in instilling manners in her.

They were gone by the time Sansa swallowed her food, but the laughter Margaery inspired echoed through the large room.

Sansa put in her headphones, found her favorite history podcast, and listened to the story of the Long Night come again instead. She let herself daydream about the Others sweeping through the school, while she was safe behind the walls of Winterfell.

But the stares still followed her out of the room when she left.

Jeyne was not done when she got back for her room, and so she spend a few hours curled on her laptop. She’d gotten a few new emails from The Brain about visitation days.

She was so close to the end of school she could taste it.

Her phone buzzed. Snapchat lit up her screen with her own face, the one Megga had taken earlier that day. She’d added a dog filter over her full mouth, and scrawled a message: _Is this the Future Mrs. Aemon Targaryen? Or just some Northern Bitch, a basic Stark Dog._ It had been sent to nearly everyone in the school.

She was alone in her room, but still, she could hear the tittering laughter of all her classmates.

What had Jeyne said earlier? _I’m going to get him to go to prom with you, save face, and spite all the stupid southerners._

It would be humiliating on so many levels.

But it would show them. Spite all the stupid southerners and their stupid dumb faces.


	2. Chapter 2

Dad, Mom, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Uncle Ben, Aunt Lya, Theon. A bunch of bad options for a bad idea. But she had made up her mind. Margaery had forced her hand. The question now was who would help her without too much harassment? Who wouldn’t ask any questions? And because no one her family would leave well enough alone, who wouldn’t give her shit about her plan to beg _Aemon Targaryen_ to be her date for prom.

And who would not be too upset that she didn’t have his number all ready.

Dad had spent the entire semester so far on edge about her. Any hint of something being wrong would get a negative reaction. She couldn’t afford it at this point. No matter how prom worked out, she only had three weeks left.

Mom, as a matter of course, wanted to know what was going on in Sansa’s life. Unusual requests were sure to ping her mom-intuition, and the likelihood of her calling through her mom phone tree to find out how bad it was were too high. And Mom would almost invariably tell Dad. Leading to a repeat of any of those problems.

Aunt Lya and Uncle Ben had never agreed with or supported her choice to go to school in the south. And Aunt Lya had never been quiet about her distaste or distrust for southern men. They’d probably help, eventually, but it wouldn’t be any fun getting to that point.

Robb and Arya would demand an explanation, and her prom date plans would not pass muster. Plus they’d be mad that she needed their help.

Bran was a tossup, and she’d keep him firmly in the maybe category.

Rickon was eleven, had only gotten his first phone a few months before, and mostly used it to send the family pictures of Shaggy doing silly things. He would also tell Mom and Dad that she had called and what they talked about, because he was eleven.

That left, she let out a deep sigh, Theon. He’d mock her for her prom plan, but he’d probably help too, and she could almost certainly talk him into not sharing what was happening with anyone. Or at least with Robb and her parents.

Maybe she’d text him first. If he was out with some girl, he might see her, respond, and forget it ever happened. That was the best outcome by far.

She stared at his name in her contacts for a long time. Before typing her message. Short and to the point. _Hey, do you have Jon’s number?_

She put her phone aside and concentrated back on her computer. If she didn’t hear back from him, she’d ask Bran.

When she heard the rarely played ringtone just minutes later, she winced.

“Hey Theon,” She said brightly when he answered.

“Sansa Stark,” He said, she could hear the smirk in her voice, “Why are you asking me for Jon’s phone number?”

“Because I need to talk to him, and I don’t have it.” She said.

“That just raises more questions,” He said, and the lilt in his voice clearly meant he was going to list them for her. “Like how you somehow have missed Jon’s number in all the years you’ve had a phone? Why you suddenly need to talk to him now? Or why you called me instead of someone in your family?”

She groaned and he laughed, “I’m guessing the answer to the last is that you don’t want your family to know you don’t have Jon’s number. Which I would not want them to know either. Why don’t you have Jon’s number?”

“I use to have it” She said, which was true, “But when he had to change his number last summer after the internship thing, I never got the new one.” She should have asked for it at some point, but also, if she was at home, Jon was always around, and if she wasn’t, she had never needed to contact him before. “And I know you have it, because who else would you send upsetting memes to in your weird sadistic kink. So can you pass it along?”

Theon hummed in interest. “But you suddenly need his number?” He paused, “You don’t need someone to come and beat up your asshole ex, do you? Because if you called Robb, he’d bring Jon and me as a matter of course, but also, we can be there in 12 hours.”

“No,” Sansa said, it wouldn’t do. Mostly because Joff’s mom would sue everyone in the vicinity just because she could. “No, I just need Jon’s number.”

“Is something wrong?” Theon asked, “I can help maybe, I’m…”

“Look, I just need to ask Jon a thing about prom.”

That struck Theon speechless for a moment, which she had never experienced before.

“Jon” He finally said, “About prom. I do not know if there are two more incompatible things. Our delicate Jon, and the senior prom at Baelor Academy. Why could you possibly want to talk to Jon about prom?”

When she didn’t answer right away, he burst out laughing. “Sansa Stark, are you trying to pull the whole, ‘take my hot cousin to prom because I don’t have a date’ scheme.”

She was alone, but she turned bright scarlet, because, well, yes, that was exactly her goal.

“I know,” Sansa grumbled, “it's the funniest thing ever, can you please give me his number now.”

That got him to stop laughing, “Wait, for real? How can you need Jon to be your fake date? First off, I would be a MUCH better fake date, because I’m more fun and don’t look like I’m related to you, but secondly, you are Sansa Stark, beauty of the North, daughter of the oldest family in Westeros. How do you not have a date for Prom. Those Greenlander boys should be holding Hunger Games style competitions to be winning the chance, or at the least bachelorette style ones.”

It was a sweet. Theon could have unexpected bursts of sweetness.

“You know what happened, at the end of last semester.” Sansa said, Theon normally spend school breaks with them, and once she’d gotten home, she had found herself no longer any good at hiding her tears. Everyone knew what happened. “My social capital has dried up. Between the rumors and the social suicide that is hanging out with me these days, no one wants to ask me.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” Theon said, “Robb didn’t…”

“Robb does not know,” Sansa said, “I’d I only have three weeks left, so it would be great to keep it that way.”

“But.” He really did sound concerned. It was validating her choice not to tell her family before.

“Look Jeyne, she my new roommate, she’s Northern, so she still talks to me. We had talked about it and she and I were just going to get a room in the hotel and eat room service all night instead.” She sighed, “but Marge and Joff were mocking me about not being about the get a date and earlier that day Arya had sent the fourth ‘hottest singles’ list Jon made, and just, I said I was going with Aemon Targaryen to shut them up.”

She waited for Theon’s laughter. It didn’t come. “Are you sure you don’t want us to come down and beat them up? Between the three of us, I think we could get some guys together.”

“Some guys?” Sansa let out an unintended giggle, “are a bunch of public school boys going to form a crew for a rumble?

“Not a crew,” Theon said smoothly, “An army, we’ll call our banners, like the lords of old. And we’ll fight the Lannister brat for our Lady.”

Jon, Robb, and Theon, atop dapper horses, dressed in Armour, leading great armies under banners of wolves and dragons, and whatever Theon’s family was into. That she could see in her mind’s eye. She had seen bits and pieces before. All of the boys had gone through a phase where they were mad for history, and they’d gone to many a ren faire in costume, Sansa happy to play the distressed princess for Jon or Robb or Bran to rescue from the play set tower, while Arya delighted in playing the bad knight who put her there. They obviously kept horses at the Winterfell Estate, and though they all learned to ride and care for them as a matter of course, Aunt Lya was particularly devoted. She lived in a condo in Wintertown proper, but visited nearly everyday to ride, and Jon had been accompanying her since he was old enough to sit up on his little pony. He was a sure, strong rider on the grey horse he preferred. And under the red dragon that graced all Targaryen Enterprises Logos, and the grey wolves that covered all things Starks, he’d looked quite a picture. No less then with Robb and Theon beside him.

She shook her head; she was long past such fantasies of her childhood. And Theon was talking again.

“Look, I’ll send you his number,” He said, and he sounded genuine, “But can I give you some advice.”

“Don’t bother him with it? Or don’t tell him I didn’t know his number?”

“Neither,” Theon said, “Tell him what you told me. About school and the bullying and whatever rumors might be spreading. You do that; he will do just about anything for you. Even pretend to be _Aemon Targaryen_. And if you change your mind and just want to get some lions beat up, we can make that happen too.”

And they said their goodbyes.

Just moments after they hung up, her texts lit up, and the ten-digit number that would get her into contact with Jon was just a push away.

But she felt even worse.

 _Pretend to be Aemon Targaryen_. She hadn’t even considered that, but she should have. Jon’s relationship with his father was rocky. Aunt Lya and Rhaegar Targaryen had neither come together nor parted on the best of terms and she had long claimed that the only good result of that time was Jon. Jon had grown up in the North, in Wintertown. He would probably have grown up in the anonymity of the Northern Upper Class, like his cousins, as was the northern way, if not for the fact that the Targaryen brand, be it musical or business, was the family.

They were photographed, they were interviewed, and they were plastered anywhere and everywhere Rhaella and Rhaegar could managed, particularly when Aerys started to pick up a reputation for outbursts and violence in public.

Aunt Lya and Dad could only fight it so much, but part of the compromise was that Jon, who’d been known by his middle name since before his birth, would keep something of a separate identity among the Targaryen press machine and his actual northern life. And that compromise was Jon Snow and Aemon Targaryen.

Sansa had not actually ever heard anyone actually call him Aemon. Jon was Jon. When Aunt Lyanna yelled his full name, she only said Jon Stark Targaryen, not Aemon Jon Stark Targaryen. Aemon was some fictional creature, brought up in mocking and in jest. As likely brought up about someone else then about Jon, who’s own favorite insult for Theon was how very Aemon Targaryen any particularly act was.

To ask her cousin to put on that mask seemed like such a betrayal.

All her doubts were doubled. She couldn’t do this to him and she wouldn’t do this to him. 

Prom was in two weeks, and graduation was just a week after that. She could make it without dragging Jon through her shit.

She made up her mind. She’d save Jon’s phone number into her contacts because it really was shameful she didn’t have it, but she would not call and pester him about this.

It was Saturday night, and she had exams next week.

She was well on her way to a history paper about the War of the Five kings when her phone buzzed with an airdrop.

The originator was Joffrey, and it had been sent to the entire school. It was a photo, clearly edited but obviously well beyond Joff’s abilities.

It was meant to look like a twitter page, with a blue verified check mark for @AemonTargaryen, even though one definitely did not exist, because Jon loathed all social media, and had ranted about it more than once to Sansa.

In it, Margaery’s very much real twitter, @RoseofHighgarden, was tweeting to a twitter with Jon’s familiar face about her excitement that he would be attending their prom as Sansa Stark’s date. Gentle and genial and perfectly polite, as Margaery was want to do.

The response was so far away from anything Jon could ever think, let alone say where other people could hear. It recalled Aerys famously caught on tape anti-Dornish rant, or the headline breaking news about Viserys in Vaes Dothrak.

_That stupid Northern Cunt wouldn’t be worth getting my dick wet for, let alone going to some stupid high school prom._

Jon would never call her a northern cunt. Would probably never use cunt as an insult for fear of his mother or Arya’s wrath. And it was southerners who he sneered at, though often quick to apologize to his beloved Aunt Cat when she caught him at it. But the words struck her.

It wasn’t real. And anyone with a half a brain should know that. But nobody believed the rumor about Mr. Lannister either, and they all delighted in spreading it. 

She burst into tears for the second time that day. And without too much thought, she pushed the number Theon had given her.

“Sansa?” Came the confused voice on the other end of the phone. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?” She merely sobbed into her phone, “Are you crying? Oh gods, what’s happened?”

“I,” She started, and then sucked in a long, shuddering break through her tears, “I need your help.” He was silent for several seconds, and she wondered if she’d been clear enough for him to understand through her still strong sobs. She prepared to say it again, but he cut her off.

“What happened?” He asked again, “Are Robb and Uncle Ned not picking up their phones?” Because what problem could she possibly call him for? “I think they’re both in Uncle Ned’s study, I can go get them for you.”

“No,” she screeched, and then realized that he must be at Winterfell this weekend, catching up with their family. She wished she was there with him. “No, I need your help with prom.”

“What, I don’t think I heard you.”

“Prom is in two weeks, and I need your help.”

He paused again, “Do I need to go get Aunt Cat? Because I…”

She cut him off with a sob, and then confessed the whole sorted thing. She’d been very careful to shield the extent of the bullying for her family so far, and she could hear Jon’s sharp intakes of breath as she laid it all out.

The story took a long time, in part because she kept breaking into hysterics again and again, and in part because would occasionally interpret her to threaten her enemies all kinds of grievous bodily harms. But eventually she got it all out, including forwarding both pictures to him.

“And I know it isn’t right, and I never got your new phone number, and had to ask Theon for it, and I’m a terrible cousin and I shouldn’t have lied and this is a natural consequence but…”

“Sansa,” He cut her off. “of course I’ll help you.” He said it so matter-of-factly, without any hint of judgement or grudge. “Tell me everything I need to know.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next week was long, but Sansa knew something no one else did: she would be going to prom with Aemon Targaryen on her arm. That thought kept her going. A smug satisfaction of a soon to be crushing blow to her enemies. Though the taunting continued, it had a harder time sticking.

Jeyne was eternally in her corner, but she found new companionship in Jon and Theon as well. They promised not to tell her parents or Robb and so when she was down and out, she let them know. Theon mostly just sent memes and pictures of dogs and wolves being cute. Pick me ups; he called them, eager to make her laugh, and more than a little scared of her tears.

Jon, whose semester had ended and was therefore at home when she’d called with her sob story, was taking near daily videos of Lady, and sent those too. But he seemed more than happy just to talk as well.

He did not ask about school in a general since, because he knew the answers would not be pleasant. But he asked about her favorite classes and subjects. He wanted to know what books she was reading and what thoughts they had inspired in her. He wanted to know if she’d settled on any firm plans for the next year.

Often she’d answer his questions as a mode of distraction, but he tuned-in to every word she said, asked relevant follow up questions, and was always eager to hear her answers. Jon was smart and dutiful, but he had never been scholarly like Sansa had, he hadn’t read any of the books she was currently working through. Still, he seemed to genuinely enjoy hearing her take, and even one of her recommendations.

It was nice.

It was familiar.

It was dangerous. 

She remembered, all too well, being thirteen and coming home from Baelor for the first time. Jon had been there, because Jon was always there. But suddenly he was also _there_. In Sansa’s line of vision but also in Sansa’s thoughts. Sixteen and darkly handsome. Sansa had grown up admiring the heroic knights of her beloved fairy tales, shiny and golden, but Jon looked more like the dark ranger who was a prince in disguise. Just as noble, but also with a glint of dangerous power behind his eye.

It made her stomach twist. And it took her nearly two weeks to realize that she liked Jon. _Liked-liked_ him, in the middle school parlance of the day. She didn’t quite understand until later that this was her sexual awakening, and it was directed at _Jon_ of all people.

But she knew at the time that going up to her cousin, tall, dark, handsome, and sixteen with a pretty blonde girlfriend named Val, and doing whatever a thirteen year old would have thought was a come on would end badly for everyone involved.

She returned to school the next semester and set her sights on Joffrey Baratheon, before the divorce and paternity test lost had him that name. He was her age, golden, and southern. Just what Sansa was meant for.

And Joff had made any lingering feeling for Jon, his soulful brood, his warm smile, his sculpted chest, his bad jokes, and his kind manner, easier to push away as weird holdovers from an earlier time.

But now she was going to drag the poor boy to prom with her. And her feelings were coming along too.

She wonders if that’s why the treacherous part of her brain had suggested Aemon Targaryen as her potential prom date, instead of someone less sticky, like the younger son to the Greyjoy shipping empire. Because there wasn’t anything more romantic to the thirteen year old in the back of her brain then the idea of Jon taking her to prom.

But he had agreed, and she felt so much better, and it was hard not to relish those thoughts.

She talked Jeyne into signing out of school with her for the weekend, but did not tell her about their urgent need for dress shopping; instead, she took her to lunch at a little bistro known for privacy.

“What’s the reservation under?” Asked the hostess.

“Greyjoy,” Sansa said, “We’re meeting people, and they should already be here.

She had not mentioned that to Jeyne, and the look on her face was confused.

The hostesses eyes lit up, “Oh, yes, they said to expect you,” And the giggle she gave made Sansa stupidly jealous for a moment. 

But she was polite as they were guided back to a little table in a far off corner, where two well-dressed young men sat, waiting for them.

Jeyne let out a little shriek of recognition.

“Don’t freak out,” Sansa advised with a smile, though she was serious, “We are in public, let me introduce you.” 

Jon and Theon had learned their manners, and both rose as they approached. Each made a point of giving Sansa a long, tight hug while Jeyne flitted wide eyed beside her.

When they pulled away, Sansa pushed Jeyne forward, into Theon’s outstretched hand, “I’d like you both to meet Jeyne Poole,” She said, “Jeyne, this is Theon Greyjoy,” he shook her hand, but gave her a wink that made Sansa and Jon catch each other’s eye, and roll them, “And Aemon Targaryen.” Jon made no innuendos, nor corrected his name. He’d suggested it, in fact. It would get Sansa use to calling him that in front of other people, and would make sure Jeyne did not make a slip up before the end of school.

They settle into their chairs, but Jeyne only waited until everyone was comfortable before she asked her questions.

“What the fuck?” She looked immediately embarrassed by her word choice, but clearly stood by her question, looking at Sansa.

“It didn’t actually occurs to me to call and ask him to come with me to save face. But you suggested it, and I realized it was a really good idea. So thank you.” Sansa said.

“So...you called him?” asked Jeyne.

“Yes, to ask.”

“Technically you called me first.” Theon said.

“I texted you, and only for his number.”

“Which I can’t believe you didn’t have.” Theon repeated, before turning to Jon, “Can you believe she didn’t have your number?”

“My number changed less than a year ago.” Jon said, “It was completely understandable,” He smiled a Jeyne, “This man at this company I had interned with decided he hated me and thought that it would be fun to leak my number to couple of tabloids.”

“That sounds awful,” She said.

“Only for the week or so it took to figure out what was going on,” He said dismissively, “My father was kind of upset, but my mom and uncle basically got him blackballed from anywhere in the North.”

“I still am not sure why Thorne thought he’d get away with that.” Theon said.

“Because I think he’s still convinced the North is of no use to anyone, and that a big deal in the south like my father couldn’t be bothered with dealings above the Neck.” Jon scoffed with obvious disdain, and Sansa basked a bit in some classic Northern sensibilities. “Or maybe that he thinks that my dad hates me and banished me up north, like basically happened to him. It doesn't really matter. He lost his job with Jeor, had to pay damages, and can’t get a job in the North, and has apparently found himself unwelcome most places in the Vale and Riverlands and Dorne, because low and behold, I have connections. He’s trying to scrape something out in the West last I heard. I just had to get a new phone number.” He waved a dismissive hand.

“I do feel bad the I never got your number.” Sansa said, “Particularly since you had mine.”

“You’ve had the same one since you got a phone at 11 and went around to everyone wanting to trade numbers.” Jon smiled, “I am much more bothered by the fact that you even considered that I would say no to you.”

“It was a lot to ask.” Sansa said, “You hate parties, and the south, and high school.” She had the presence of mind to stop before adding _and me_. Jon loved her. Had loved her for her entire life. Had clapped at her ballet recitals and played hero to her princess, helped her ride her first pony and tried in vain to explain fractions when Robb had given up. It was not the fraternal bond he shared with Robb, Bran, and Arya, but that did not make it any less real.

Jon was clearly ready to respond, but Theon cut him off, “Oh you know him, always ready to save some Stark girl, hoping to single handedly make up for his father’s mistake.”

The sound of Jon’s hand hitting Theon’s shoulder made a louder thwack then sounded healthy, but Theon definitely deserved it.

“Picking your younger cousin up from an underground fighting ring where she’s gotten in over her head does not denote some pathological need to save Stark women,” Jon said.

“Arya did what?” asked Sansa, alarmed.

“Don’t tell Robb, or your parents, or Mom, or Uncle Ben, or any of the Tullys or…”

“Arya’s going to a fight club?”

“That was like two years ago.” Jon assured her, “And I told her if she kept it up, I was telling Uncle Ned. And someone,” he shot a look at Theon, “Know people involved in it, and is keeping an ear out if she goes back.”

“If you’re sure it's stopped…”

“I’m really quiet sure. She’s too busy with the Cassel mathletes and tourney club anyway.” Jon assured her.

They were distracted by their waitress and the list of daily specials, but when she walked away, Jeyne cut in, eager to not be overlooked.

“But how do you two know each other, exactly?”

Jon looked shortly taken aback, “We’re cousins.” He said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

To be fair, under different circumstances, it was. Jon and Sansa’s shared features: a generally similar complexion, a longer face, the shape of their ears, looked incidental when it was just the two of them. But when the entire family was in the mix, it was easy to pick out the shared Starkness among all six of them. Jon looked more like Dad then she did.

But Jeyne clearly couldn’t see it. “I thought your cousins were named Jon and Robert.”

Jon’s eyes widened at that, looking at Sansa in question, as though he didn’t expect his name to be known. Which was ridiculous. It was impossible to tell about 85% of the stories from home without bringing up Jon.

“My mom calls me Jon, sometimes.” He said, “So her family does too, sometimes.” An understatement, but perhaps enough of a solution. 

“So you told them you were taking my cousin to prom?” Asked Jeyne.

“They definitely don’t know he’s my cousin,” Sansa said, and they would, too. If Joffrey or Margaery had ever visited Winterfell like she’d offered, they would have it within their power to blow her whole scheme wide open. “I doubt they’d remember that I have a cousins I call Jon and Robin. My sister finds his propensity to be named to hot young celebrity lists hilarious and likes to send me pictures of the articles, she’d sent me one before the meeting where they goaded me about prom, and that’s why he was the first name I thought of, that would be suitably impressive and not actually unbelievable, no matter how it sounded.”

“You should have said me,” Theon said with a sigh, “I’m plenty impressive too.”

“What magazine named you impressive, _Fishermen’s Weekly_?” asked Jon.

“Theon’s dad is in boats.” Sansa explained.

“Both of you make is sound like he runs a marina, or something, which is just a mean thing to do in front of a lovely young lady who doesn’t know me.” He grinned at Jeyne, “My dad owns Greyjoy International.”

Jeyne recognized the name. “The Iron fleet?” she asked.

“That’s the one, world’s largest shipping and boat building empire.” Theon said proudly, “I’m his son.”

“I’m going to tell Asha you said that next time she comes to visit you.” Jon said, with a grin to Jeyne “His sister, and his father’s chosen heir.”

“Exactly,” Theon said smoothly, The fact of his brothers’ deaths went unmentioned. “Ash has to be in charge, but I get to jet set down to King’s Landing on a whim, play wingman to my hopeless friends, and meet the most charming women.”

Jeyne blushed, and Jon rolled his eyes.

“Fair warning,” He said to Jeyne, “based on the number of drinks I’ve seen thrown in his face, he won’t take you to breakfast the next morning.”

“Not everyone does that, just because you do…”

“Robb does too.”

“That’s because Ned raised the both of you crazy. Their is something in the water at Winterfell, I swear.” Theon grumbled, “Normal people don’t take one nightstands out to breakfast the next morning.” He reiterated.

Jon’s ability to shock her with his thoughtfulness was more dangerous then she’d thought it would be. Because really, who did take a one nightstand out to breakfast.

The answer was Jon, though it seemed that Jeyne was kind of taken with Theon at the moment.

Sansa could not see the appeal with the two side to side.

But she left them to their flirting while she and Jon talked logistics.

“Black tie?” Jon asked, “White tie?”

“Black,” Sansa assured him, “It’s Baelor, but it’s still only a high school prom.”

“Do we need to match?” He asked, “That’s a thing right, sometimes you match?”

“We do not need to match,” She promised, “Because I have no idea what I’m wearing, that’s what’s on the schedule for the afternoon.” She considered him, and the people she went to school with.

“You don’t have any Targaryen cuff links or anything, do you?”

He frowned, “I do, more than one pair, actually. You want me to go full Targ then?”

“No, not if it makes you uncomfortable. Sorry, just thinking.” She promised.

“I’m good,” he promised, “I put in an order with Theon’s flower guy for your corsage.” He added.

Sansa paused, that was another thing she’d been planning to take care of today.

“Theon has a flower guy?” Sansa asked, “A florist?”

“Theon sends a lot of apology flowers.” Jon said, and nodded to their table companions; the man in question had taken out his phone and headphones and moved around to Jeyne’s side of things, showing her something loud on the internet that had her giggling, “You’ll see.”

She should probably have been worried about Theon preying on her unsuspecting roommate, but she figured unlike most of his conquests, she had inside lines to most of his friends, and could retaliate as needed. And it was hard to care about lots of things in the face of Jon’s smile.

***

Sansa Stark bought her senior prom dress off the rack, but she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like she hadn’t paid full price, and as she ran her hand over the grey silk, she knew there were things she could add to make it truly one of a kind.

If she was a Stark bitch, she was going to be _THE_ Stark bitch.

She went to her final exams, she ate with Jeyne, she texted her family vague, happy updates, she worked little silver stitches into her dress, and she hoped the package she’d ask her father to send from home would arrive in time.

It was a slow week, and the more she held her head high, sure in the knowledge that she’d get some satisfaction out of her enemies, the more they seemed determined to steal her dignity from her.

Whispers followed her everywhere. And a couple of her teachers had asked her after finals if perhaps she’d made up some story to regain her friends.

When she’d walked to the headmaster’s office, two days before prom, to hand in the signed form required to bring a date from outside of the school to the dance, the secretary hadn’t looked like she believed it, and just reminded Sansa that her date was required to provide ID.

Sansa texted Jon that reminder as she left and he replied with a picture of two ties, one red and one black, and told her to pick.

She ignored the flutter in her belly. Jon was just being Jon. A lovely human doing a favor for his fifth favorite cousin.


	4. Chapter 4

Friday afternoon, there was something of a mass exodus of the school. Jeyne and Sansa made it a point to be two of the last to leave, and slip into their hotel suite with as little noise as possible. 

Sansa’s original plan of curling up with room service, wine, and dragons did not need to be completely abandoned. And they got tipsy together, cackling about the look sure to be on everyone’s faces tomorrow, when Aemon Targaryen showed up at prom. 

Not even the late night text from an unknown number, calling her a lying whore, could ruin the anticipation. 

They slept in the next morning, before ordering brunch. 

Sansa’s Aunt Lysa could be a trying sort of woman, but she’d lived in King’s Landing for a long time before going back to hide in the Vale, and she had made some excellent recommendations as far as beauty professionals. 

They spent the rest of the day being painted, pinned, and primped. 

In Winterfell there was a painting hanging in a formal sitting room. It was of the first queen regnant in the North, another Sansa known for her beauty and her red hair. In the picture, her hair was done up in a flurry of several fancy braids twisting together, and Sansa had just such a thing done to her hair for the dance. 

When their hair, make-up, and nails were done, she and Jeyne helped each other into their dresses. Jeyne’s blue frock hadn’t changed, but Sansa had been diligent on her own, and set running direwolves all over it. She’d done it in a silvery thread, so it wasn’t in high contrast to the grey dress she’d purchased. A subtle pattern of her family.

And over it all, she laid her gift from her father, a clock of ice white she’d warn to many a formal occasions in the North. 

It was Summer in King’s Landing, and there was not the slightest need for one, but it was a statement. About who she was and what she was not. She was done with the South, and she intended to let the South know it. 

But first she and Jeyne took all the selfies they knew their mothers would demand. 

The dinner started at 7, with the dance part officially beginning at the hotel ballroom at 8. 

And at 6:30 there was a knock on their hotel suite door. 

Their dates had arrived. 

It was no big deal. Jon in a black tie tux, all made up for an event, was not an unusual occurrence.

He had worn the cufflinks, small silver dragons with little rubies for eyes. His black on black on black tux featured a black vest embroidered with little red dragons. It had a decidedly old school feel to it, wearing house colors and symbols. It made them match. 

She had seen Jon all cleaned up nicely a thousand times before. 

But today, waiting for her, matching her, coming to her rescue after her lie, it was almost too much. 

And she felt full of butterflies when she looked at him. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, all earnest sincerity. 

Theon was paying Jeyne all sorts of other complements. He was quite good at sweet nothings, it seemed. 

Jon just looked at her like she was radiant. 

Joff was so good at saying nice things, and so bad at doing nice things. She didn’t mind the lack of praise. 

He held up a little white paper bag. 

“Theon,” He called, handing a little box from the inside over to his friend. 

It was Jeyne’s corsage, a bundle of white orchids all wrapped up in lace and silk.

Sansa had completely forgotten to acquire boutonnieres, but even in that they were not lacking. The corsage came with a little orchid Jeyne pinned to Theon’s to shiny lapel. 

Theon’s flower guy, who Sansa thought should just be called a florist, did good work. And Sansa smiled her approval as Jon pickup up what had to be her corsage. White orchids would go well with her outfit. She was glad they had not gone with something out there and colorful. It might have clashed. 

She changed her mind a second later. 

Jon had not gotten her mere white orchids. In the little box, tied up in grey and white ribbons, were half a dozen little blue roses twisted and bound together. 

In the south, winter roses were an exotic beauty, mostly known for the fairytale of a Southern Prince kidnapping a Northern Princess, and setting the content to war in his wake. All accounts agreed that the Northern Princess in question had to have been a Stark, because who else was there. All of Rhaeagar Targaryen’s unfortunate hit songs dedicated to and about Aunt Lyanna were filled with such imagery. 

But in the North winter roses meant more. They meant the vitality of the ancient glass gardens in Winterfell. They meant wildling singers and beautiful princesses stolen in the night. They meant the first queen in the North, who was said to be often gifted such things by her consort. They meant the Last Hero and his mother. 

Blue winter roses meant the North. They meant love. 

They meant Stark girls. 

He tied it around her wrist, she saw a bit of silver touch the light. A little wolf charm dangled in between the winter roses. 

“I hope you like it,” He said with a nervous half smile. 

“I like the wolf bit,” She promised, but she liked it all. 

She loved it. 

After he added his own little rose to his lapel, Jon offered his arm, like the gentleman that he was, and they left the room

In the elevator, Theon and Jeyne’s hands had already started to awkwardly wander in such a tight space. 

But Jon made an effort to cut through the PDA discomfort.. 

“I like your cloak,” He said. “It’s the one you wore at the Cerwyn ball, last year, isn’t it?”

She was pleasantly surprised he remembered, “It was,” she agree, “I do only have the two formal capes. I had Daddy send me the unlined one.” 

Jon involuntarily groaned, “King’s Landing in the summer,” he said, with a great deal of malice. “They could use a couple of summer snows.” 

She giggled, “Yes, it would make things nicer. The cloak is really probably to much, but I just, I had a vision and you know what Robb and Arya say, I’m such a slave to fashion.”

Jon laughed, “You come by it honestly, Aunt Cat says. And Mom swears that Uncle Ned as a teenager was so much worse than you’ve ever been.” She snorted at that. Her father’s fashion since was something of a legend in the North. “Besides, your vision came true. You look absolutely stunning.” 

The butterflies flitted up again, “You really think so?” She asked, “Thank you.”

“You look like a Northern Princess.” he said. And the idea really did strike her. 

Since she’d had any kind of vague idea of what style was, princess had always been on the top of her lists as far as what _her_ style should be. 

But Northern was another matter entirely. 

She’d fought it and pushed it away for so long. 

But she was done. 

She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, a daughter of the North, and everyone was going to know that tonight. 

Mr. Lannister sat at the ballroom’s entrance, checking tickets and IDs. Very few people had beat them down, by Sansa’s designs. 

“Miss Stark.” He said, not looking at them, merely searching his list to make sure her date was approved. 

She could see the moment he read the name, and his eyes snapped up to look at Jon, and then his driver's license that confirmed him as the name she’d gotten approved to be her date. 

A name he certainly knew.

“Mr. Targaryen.” He offered, looking at Jon with shurd, mismatched eyes, “You look just like your mother. Did you know that?”

“I did,” Jon agreed. Sansa didn’t like it. She needed at least the night to pass without the fact that Jon was her cousin getting out. 

After that, it didn’t matter. It would just be another connection they’d missed out on by messing with her. But tonight, it would come off as desperate. Which it had been, but which she did not want shared. 

“I do not think my nephew is going to notice your resemblance to your uncle, however,” Mr. Lannister continued, “Have a pleasant evening.”

They were dismissed, and Sansa led him into the ballroom, and into their table for the dinner. 

Because she was on the planning committee, they would share the center table with the rest of the committee. But Sansa had wanted to be the first one there, and she was glad she succeeded. 

She did not want to turn heads when she entered fashionably late with her promised date. She wanted to be casually waiting, as though the optics of the moment were completely lost on her. 

Jon helped her out of her cloak and pulled out her chair for her, even though they were more or less alone. 

“Thank you for doing this.” Sansa said, when they were settled. 

“I’m always happy to help you,” Jon said, grasping her hand and giving it a tight squeeze. 

They chatted casually after that. Jon and Sansa had a kingdom and family in common, it was not hard to seek topics. 

They knew each other, had a comfortable familiarity born of eighteen years together. 

And as Sansa laughed at one of his bad jokes, she found herself enjoying it immensely. 

She loved Jon as her cousin, and had maybe been suppressing a crush on him for something like five years, but she’d never sought his company out the way her siblings did. He was Robb’s best friend, and inexplicably Arya’s favorite brother. He’d only ever been Sansa’s favorite cousin because his competition was Robin, and that wasn’t even fair. 

She regretted that now, because this was fantastic. 

And as he talked about The Brain, it was hard not to imagine herself there next year, seeking Jon out. Getting more of this. 

It was so engrossing that she didn’t notice they were joined at the table until there was a little shirk, and Elinor Tyrell had caught sight of Jon, and even in the low light, clearly knew who he was. 

“Elinor,” Sansa said brightly, happily, “This is Aemon, Aemon, Elinor.” 

Elinor’s date, the little Ambrose boy, was completely forgotten in favor of a much more exciting, older Targaryen in the mix. Though she had nothing of value to say to him.

“We have a vegan option for tonight.” Elinor tried. 

“I saw the menu.” Jon said, “It's good to have that option for people.” 

“I hope you like it.” 

“I’m not a big fan of tofu.” Jon said with a not so subtle but incredibly adorable nose wrinkle, and Sansa had to force a laugh away. She could remember many a dinner with Aunt Lyanna and Jon where Rhaegar’s preferences for soy based produces had been a great source of mocking merriment between them.

“Your father is famous for his vegan causes.” Elinor tried. 

“I know,” Jon said. And Sansa could almost hear him saying _that’s why I’m not a big fan_. He would have said that, any where in the North, or even among people he wanted to be have a good time with. But to Elinor Tyrell, that level of intimacy was denied. 

Her subsequent attempts to start conversations were just as stilted, and she looked relieved when everyone else showed up. 

Joffrey looked like he’d swallowed poison. 

“What a pleasure,” Margaery cooed offering a hand that Jon gave only a half hearted shake, “we were so excited when Sansa said you were coming.”

“I’m happy to be here,” Jon said, “I am always happy to have an excuse to spend an evening with Sansa.” He squeezed her grasped hand again, sitting out on the table in full view of everyone. 

Joff and Margaery's eyes both clearly caught it. She and Jon had agreed that they would not create some large, complicated story and pretend they were dating or anything. They’d cut out the cousin angle to save a little face, but they’d just say Aemon was willing to join his friend. 

She wasn’t sure if they might not get a different idea. She hoped Jon wouldn’t mind any miss information they might spread. At least among her schoolmates. 

Dinner was served, and though Jon made a point to dig into his food, the entire table was clearly preoccupied by him. 

Margaery didn’t not like that, “Aemon, what do you think of your fish.” 

Jon swallowed and smiled, “Yes,” he said politely, then turned to Sansa, “It reminds me of that fish we had at Riverrun, last summer.” 

Sansa had spend a least a few weeks at Riverrun every year for about as long as she could remember, and Jon had often joined them. They ate a lot of fish. 

But she nodded. 

“You’ve been to Riverrun?” Asked Joffrey with a sneer. Sansa had tried to get him to come several times, but he had always refused. 

“Of course, the Tully’s are just a wonderful family.” He waved a hand dismissively, “But everyone knows that. Because everyone knows them.”

Tullys were old, but most of their promances was recent. But they had long, good working relationships with the Targaryens. So it wasn’t out of place so much as an uncomfortable reminder that everyone here should really be giving Sansa more due. 

“They are lovely,” Margaery agreed, though she’d never met a one of them. 

Jon looked at her almost critically for a long moment, “And I am so sorry, remind me of your family, I’ve forgotten.” Though Sansa had prepared him on all of their dinner guests, and he most certainly hadn’t. 

“Margaery Tyrell,” She said, and strained to keep her smile. Margery hated being forgotten more than anything. Being the beloved center of attention was everything to her. And she put up with being Joffrey’s girlfriend just for it. “So Tyrell.” 

Jon nodded in consideration, “Tyrell, Tyrell,” He whispered, as though trying to place is, he glanced at Sansa, “How do I know that name?” His whisper carried. And all four of the Tyrells at the table looked utterly horrified at not being known. 

“Highgarden,” Sansa supplied. And Jon’s face lit up with recognition, though she knew he had to have known that. Jon might care more about the North, even the Land of Always Winter, over anything south of the Neck, or at least South of Riverrun, which held Uncle Bryden and his stories, but he wasn’t stupid. 

“Right, right,” Jon nodded then, “the beneficiaries of the Highgarden swindle and the poor unfortunate Gardners.” He said it casually, an interesting bit of trivia. And not at all like he’d dropped a bombshell that house Tyrell had spend very very very good money to erase. That the Tyrells had talked the Gardeners into backing such a fantastically wrong horse and then run off with their winnings just a hundred years or so ago was not supposed to be discussed. 

Sansa was trying to hard not to giggle to guide the conversation elsewhere. 

But Jon just considered Margery again, and then Joffrey, making sure to make little humming, and muttering, _what a shame,_ before going back to his meal, and stabbing at his turnips with gusto. 

“What was that?” Margery asked, her smile was still in place, but her eyebrows were angry. Joffrey just looked mad. And the rest of the table had their mouths open, not least of all Margery fellow Tyrell cousins. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Jon said, turning his attention to a carrot. “These carrots are a little over sweet, aren’t they. Maybe the restaurant uses a weird supplier. Normally Crownlands food tastes better.” All the produce had been Reach grown at Margery’s insistence. Jon knew that too, because Sansa had forwarded him basically an entire years worth of meeting minutes in preparation. She had not known this would be the result. 

“No really,” Joffery said, “What is a shame?”

“I just didn’t realize the rumors about the Lannister mines being dry were true,” Jon said, with a shake of his head, and a pitying sort of sigh. “Being reduced to trading on new money…” He looked between Joffrey and Margaery again. “Well, it happens to the best of people, I’ve heard.” 

Sansa was as struck speechless as everyone else. Because Aemon Jon Stark Targaryen had just called a Lannister pennyless, and a Tyrell new money. That the latter was true was not supposed to be discussed at Baelor. It wasn’t the Vale, a little social climbing was good for the soul. 

Into the stunned silence, Jon looked at the dancefloor, where Jeyne and Theon and several other couples had begun to drift. “Are you done?” He asked, “Because if so, we should dance.” 

It was clearly more a desire to escape the awkwardness than being moved by the moment that prompted the question, but Sansa was done, and was more then ready to leave, and so she nodded, and Jon led her out to the floor. 

“I can’t believe you,” She hissed, as they move in time to the music. 

“I’m sorry,” He looked guilty, “I didn’t mean too…”

“Don’t apologize,” Sansa insisted, “It was amazing, but I did not actually invite you to dis Reach grown food.”

“That was Theon’s idea, actually. I’ve only been to the Reach like, twice, to visit Sam at the Citadel. But when Theon and I were discussing cutting things to say, he mentioned that Reach vegetables are always too sweet. And I thought it would be a nice, innocent thing to say.” 

Sansa did giggle then, leaning into Jon’s shoulder to stifle it, and not pulling back far away when she was done. 

“And accusing the Tyrells of being nouveau riche, was that Theon’s idea too?”

“Oh no,” Jon shook his head, “That is just plain fact. A hundred years ago, no one had ever heard of their family. I was talking to Sam about them. Apparently the Reach is split down the middle about it. The Redwyns and Hightowers decided it would be fun to play along, but Sam’s dad barely tolerates them, and his mom’s family hates them. Basically accused them of stealing inheritance two or three times over.” Jon shook his head, “And now they’ve thrown their lot in with the Lannisters. That can only end badly. But I figured accusing Joffrey of domestic abuse at dinner might have been over the line.” 

“Probably,” Sansa agreed. 

“But really that a _Tyrell_ things she’s better than you. That a _Lannister_ looks down on you. _You_ , Sansa _Stark_.” He seemed genuinely angry then. “And even if you weren’t a member of the oldest, most esteemed family in the entirety of Westeros.” Which was maybe over selling it a bit, but which Sansa was sure Jon 100% believed. He was, after all, a member of that family too. “You are also just great.” 

“Great?” She asked, “That’s kind of vague.” 

“You’re smart and kind and funny and pretty.” He said, as the song began to change, “And I just don’t…” He groaned loudly as the new song started. It was a soft, slow sort of ballad and it took Sansa a few lines to recognize. 

Because Rhaegar Targaryen music was basically banned at home, and she’d never developed a taste for it. 

But it was definitely one of Jon’s father’s songs. And it was definitely one about Aunt Lyanna.

He looked, suddenly, like he wanted to bolt, but he just stood firm, pulled her closer, and slow danced on, irregardless of the music. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to…”

“See the headline tomorrow, ‘Aemon Targaryen can’t stand his Father’s Music’?” Jon asked, against her ear, “Yes, I’m sure I don’t want that.”

“Even though it's true?” Sansa said. 

“Especially because it's true.” Jon said, “The goal is not to explain myself to my father, the goal is never to have to explain myself to my father.”

“Things really never did get any better between the two of you, did they.” Sansa hummed against Jon. She remembered how much he’d hated going South to see them when he was younger, but he’d eventually stopped his complaining, and had slowly been incorporated into more and more of the Targaryen machine. She’s known it was still something of a sore point of course. It wasn’t like she hadn’t talked to Jon in five years, but she hadn’t thought to check in on his current feelings, to really get to know what was going on inside his head, until two weeks ago. 

“I’m sorry I’m making be Aemon tonight.” She whispered into his chest. 

“I’m not,” He said back, “I got to drag a Lannister, have some lovely fish, and spend an evening with you.” She looked up at him at that. “Absolutely worth is,” He bit his lip, “But I am sorry you had to go to prom with me, and not have some fairy tale prince.” He offered, “I mean, it's definitely not my fault, but you deserve some southern gentleman to be the talk of the town with. Someone who you would be as mad about as they would be about you.” 

And she must have been possessed by the spirit of her 13 year old self. But Sansa could do nothing else but lean in impossibly closer, and bring her lips to his. 


	5. Chapter 5

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting: for him to push her away, to be glared at with a horrified sort of look. For it to stop.

But all he did was wrap his arms tighter around her, and open his mouth to her.

They did not actually stop until the song changed some 30 seconds later.

They both pulled back, short of breath, and with several stares from dancers in their vicinity. As some upbeat party tune brought out even more people out to the floor, Sansa dragged Jon off to one side.

There was a balcony off the ballroom they’d rented, and after recovering her cloak from the coat check in a fit of awkwardness, Jon and Sansa went outside for a bit. It was breezy for a King’s Landing evening, which mean neither of them felt the slightest chill.

They stood there in silence for a long time.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Jon finally said, though she was the one who kissed him.

“No?” She said, but it was a question, not a statement.

“I’ve just, I’ve wanted to kiss you all night, and I…”

She cut him off with another kiss. And he once again feel into it, though she broke him off much quicker this time.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I was 13. So I win.”

He looked at her with a bemused kind of joy for several long minutes, and then kissed her again, but with a real purpose this time.

Sansa was not what anyone could call experienced. She had been with Joffrey, and as far as kissing went, it was mostly cool pecks on lips and gnawing at her face like a horse.

Jon’s lips were soft against her own, and unlike Joffrey, he didn’t seem to object to her lipstick, even as he pulled at her lower lip with his teeth. And the way his hands moved along her body, massaging into her back, was amazing.

Intellectually she’d known, of course, that people liked sex. But she’d not seen the big deal in all her time with Joffrey. Her _younger_ sister, in an embarrassing turn of events, had actually bought her a vibrator post break up. And then Sansa had had to admit that she’d never had anything close to an orgasm before.

But already she could feel the heat pooling at the base of her spine. And they were both fully clothed.

“You know,” She said, as he worked his mouth down her neck, her breath catching as he used his teeth in a way that was sure to leave a mark. “I have a room. With a door, most of a bottle of arbor gold, and a bed.” She offered in between sighs.

He stopped them, pulling back, but not letting go. “Are you sure?” He asked. Because he was Jon.

“I am very very sure.” She said.

They slipped out of the ballroom together. She didn’t see Jeyne or Theon as they left, which was an interesting sign. She hoped her hotel room wasn’t previously occupied.

Jon was the perfect gentleman on the elevator ride up to her suite. Shooting shy smiles at her, as if he was nervous. Though she could not for the life of her imagine what he could be nervous about.

Still, it was endearing. Everything about Jon was endearing.

She wasn’t sure what to expect when she pushed into her room. Something like a movie, maybe, Jon slamming her against the door and ravishing her as forcefully as possible. Joffrey had tried something like that, and it had ended with her bleeding when she hit her head.

But Jon would do better. He probably would stop if he saw blood at least.

She tried not to tense as the door closed behind them.

She was not some blushing virgin. This was not her first time and she had no right be nervous.

He smiled at her, maybe a little nervous himself, and then he came to her carefully. Softly.

He pulled her close to him in the little suite’s sitting room, but he didn’t grab her or grasp her. Instead, he rested his hands on her face, framing her mouth as he just kissed her long, and deep.

They were in private now, but though she discarded her cloak, he made no move towards the rest of her body.

She felt strange as she reached out to him, running her hands up his jacket so she could grip at his back through only his shirt.

His responding moan surprised her. And the feel of it on her lips sent a shiver down her spine.

Sansa _wanted_ him.

She’d never _wanted_ Joffrey. She’d wanted his affection, his attention, his praise. She’d wanted him to be happy and she’d wanted him to make her happy in return. But she’d never wanted _him_ like this.

However, right now, she wanted to get off, and she wanted to do it with Jon. 

But he seemed to only want to explore her mouth.

And every time she meant to move away, she was distracted by the swipe of his tongue, the bite of his teeth, or pull of his lips.

It was intoxicating.

It wasn’t until he actually started to mouth at her jaw that she remembered to speak.

“Wait,” She said pulling back, and Jon’s hands left her like he’d been burned.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“We’re wearing too many clothes,” She said, and then immediately regretted it. Because was there anything more cliché. Sansa had not been with Joffrey in over six months, she should have been working on her seduction.

But Jon grinned, “Yeah,” He said, “I think we might be.” And he shed his jacket as kicked off her shoes and untied her corsage.

He was working on his tie when she thought of a much better come on technique.

“Can you get my zipper?” She asked, walking into his personal space again, but faced away from him. She felt his hands come to rest on her. One on her neck, steady, and one brushing down her spine as he took her zipper down.

When it was fully undone, she could feel the cool air of the room against her back, but also Jon’s warm breath against her neck. He did not move his hands from where they lay, bracketing her spine.

She was use to intimacy of a sort. But something about this felt so difference. A closeness, a tension, and it didn’t even involve his tongue down her throat or his cock in her mouth.

She nearly jumped at the feeling of his mouth at the base of her neck, as he kissed at the newly exposed skin, and pushed her dress off her torso.

It was just his lips on her back, and yet the feel of his mouth on her was amazing. The pleasure radiated from the point where they met and all the way down to the warmth pooling at the base of her spine. The slick starting to slip out between her legs.

She spun around then, giving him a moment to readjust. The grey dress resting at her hips, and as he worked his tongue over her clavicle, she got to work on the buttons of his vest and his shirt.

She moaned as he began to nip at the tops of her breasts, but also as she threw the dragon embroidered vest off him. Jon was of the North, like her. He was meant to be draped in wolves.

Her bra was just beige, chosen for how well it sat under her dress, not for any independent attractiveness. She hadn’t brought anything even approaching sexy underwear south for this semester. But Jon did not seem deterred. Or at least was not put off before removing it. Joff had often been defeated by the clasp of a bra.

He kept his mouth on her as he exposed her, laving at her breasts in turn.

Every swipe of his tongue caused her to cry out in new pleasures.

“Gods,” He said, “You make the best sounds.” She took advantage of his head movement to grasp him and guide him back to her mouth. He wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her back to him. Their bare chests coming together.

As their teeth knocked against each other again, his hands returned to her hips, and he pushed her dress down to the floor.

She took that as an invitation to get his pants off.

When they were both down to underwear, Jon took a little step back again, and she took a chance to really look at him.

Joffrey hadn’t been ugly, really. He was a perfectly pretty boy, really. But Jon was a beautiful man.

His deep grey eyes swept over her mostly nude form. She had to fight to keep from crossing her arms over her chest. He’d had his mouth on them just moments ago, he could look at her breasts.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jon said, “Like a northern princess.”

And he’d said that before, but now she could feel her hair coming out of her intricate braid, the hairspray making it stick out at odd angles, her dress was in a pile on the floor, and her panties were chosen not for their appeal, but because they wouldn’t leave lines. Her make-up was sure to be a mess after his work on her face, and at least some of her lipstick was on his mouth.

And he still thought she looked like a northern princess.

She didn’t know how to respond, and before she could really start thinking of a reply, Jon fell to his knees. 

It wasn’t until he started playing with the edges of her underwear that she got some idea of what he was going to try and do.

“You don’t have to do that.” She said quickly. Joff had tried once, and he’d said the smell had been intolerable. And all of her downstairs grooming routine had stopped when the chances of a boy seeing her had. It was all an embarrassment to be avoided tonight.

“You don’t like it?” He said, and he sounded, unbelievably, almost disappointed.

“No,” She said, “Don’t feel obligated. We can do something you like.”

“I like going down on you.” He said, then paused, “I mean, I like going down on women, and I like you. So I’ll like going down on you.”

It was not exactly dirty talk, but about something about Jon’s statement was the sexiest thing she’d ever heard.

“If you’re sure.” She said.

“I’m sure,” He said, and he didn’t even try to hide the eagerness.

“Ok then.” Sansa said, “We can try.”

“Tell me if you don’t like it.” Jon said firmly, and then didn’t wait again, and pulled her panties down in one smooth motion.

She braced herself for a comment about her pubic hair: the color or the length or the prevalence. Instead he just rearranged her feet further apart and dived right in.

She wanted to watch him, she wanted to make sure he really didn’t mind. To figure out what all the fuss was about.

But she found herself distracted by his mouth on her.

She should have known, after his ministrations on her neck and breasts, that he was good at it.

He licked and sucked. At her lips, at her folds, at her clit.

She couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pleasure he was bringing her.

Even her knees started to shake.

And when he removed his head from between his legs she let out such a sound of despair, it surprised her.

His mouth was all wet. With her.

And he was grinning the grin of someone who was so very pleased with themselves.

“You should sit down,” He said, and motioned to the couch, “Because I’m not done and I don’t want you to fall over.”

Her legs felt half way to jelly, but the little couch, inoffensively beige and with no comfort to speak of did not seem appealing.

“There's a bed,” She offered. She’d said that to get him up here, hadn’t she, it hadn’t been that long ago, but it felt like forever now that she was naked with Jon.

He fumbled with something on the floor, and then stood up, taking her hand and bringing her in for another kiss. She could taste herself.

Joff had never wanted to kiss her after she’d gone down on him, but he’d tasted gross. She didn’t taste bad at all, and Joff had clearly been a dumb liar. 

He pulled her into her suite bedroom, and then helped her get settled on the bed before he returned his attention between her legs.

He was, if anything, more attentive. He licked fasted, sucked harder, and then she felt his fingers actually going inside of her.

She screamed as she peaked. Some combination of Jon, and yes, and please and thank you.

And he not stop his attentions until she had stopped her cries.

It took a while.

When he was done, she grasped at him with eager hands, and pulled him back up to her. He kisses her again, and while she savors the taste of him, he plays with the end of her braid, even more of a mess now.

He lay next to her, touched her, and though she was spent, she can’t help but want more.

”I want you inside me.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, “Yeah, we should definitely do that.” He fumbled at something behind his back and came back with a little foil package. A condom.

“I’m on birth control,” She promised, her doctor had not wanted her to change her hormone levels just because she’d stopped having sex, “So you don’t have too, I know how much guys hate the feel of it.”

He frowned.

“I’m going to murder your ex,” He said, sharply, suddenly, “I’m going to steal Ice from Uncle Ned and I’m going to take his head.” She wasn’t sure what to make of his growl, because it was defiantly done in protective older cousin mode, and also hot as all seven hells. He must have caught her uncertain look, because he stopped, “I”m sorry, I just, how dare he do that to you.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.” Sansa promised, “He’s not here now.” She let out a sigh of relief when he kicked his underwear off.

He made it a point to tear open the condom packet right in front of her, and then let her watch as he rolled it down his cock.

Sansa was not an expert in male genitalia, but she found it longer and thicker than Joff’s, with wiry dark hair curling around the base. Stiff and red with excitement. She’d often found it a tight fit, and wasn’t sure if something bigger would work.

Once it was covered, he guided himself to her entrance and began easing the tip inside.

She waited for the stretch, then the pinches and the pain. She felt the stretch, but none of the rest of it came, he simply filled her.

She moaned again, and kissed him, as both their hips went off in a rather dramatic, off kilter rhythm.

And Sansa did not make a single noise she didn’t mean to save his ego, until she came again, with Jon inside her, and kissing her and wrapped around her.

Afterwards they lay together on the overly soft hotel bed, naked and curled around each other. Sansa felt like goo. Happy, safe goo. It was amazing.

Even now, Jon seemed to be tracing unseen lines on her shoulder with delicate touches of his fingers. It was soft, intimate. Magical, almost.

“Can I ask you a question,” Jon asked, after a long stretch of silence.

“Anything,” She responded. She couldn’t think of anything about herself that he might not already know that she wasn’t more than happy to share.

“Why did you go back south this semester?” He asked.

“It was my last semester,” Sansa said, “I wanted to graduate. On time.”

“You could have graduated on time from Cassel.” Jon said, “You’re a Stark. If Bealor was desperate for you, just imagine what they’d have been like at Cassel.”

“Baelor wasn’t desperate for me,” She had to beg and beg her parents, and then, they, presumably, had to beg her way in. Baelor was for a certain set of people.

“No, they really were,” Jon said, and he shifted to face her fully, “Do you not know all this?”

She shook her head.

“After you asked, Uncle Ned or Aunt Cat called and they were apparently over eager. I know because after they basically begged for both you and Arya, Uncle Ned asked Mom if Dad had wanted to send me to Baelor.”

“Aunt Lya would never have allowed that,” Sansa said. It wasn’t even a question.

“She would not have, but I know it wasn’t a fight they had. And she told Uncle Ned that, after she laughed in his face.” Jon said, “Rhaenys and Aegon went to school in Dorne for a reason. And they sent Dany and Viserys off to Pentos. He asked if I knew the reason.”

“What was the reason?”

“Mace Tyrell paid for a new Library to be built,” Jon said, “Two years before his oldest son went off to school, to make sure that all his children, and all the extended family could make it in.” 

“No,” Sansa said. Because it was almost too much to be believed, and Baelor had a reputation, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure that the Targaryens didn’t want to send their kids anymore because they felt there was some...taint to the admissions process. I am also sure that most of the old Crownlands families followed suit. I mean, Sam’s dad sent him to Cassel. From the Reach.”

“Marge’s dad bought her way in?” Sansa said, “The library’s not called the Tyrell center, or anything.”

“No,” Jon agreed, “Because he didn’t want people to know. But plenty do. And Baelor has been trying to do damage control ever since.”

“Damage control?”

“Well, you know. No Crownlands families, Joffrey started when he was still allegedly a Baratheon, but Stannis Baratheon's daughter isn’t here, and neither are Robert’s other kids. The Vale and North have long preferred their own grounds, but there were always a few exceptions that have become mostly barren these days, and the once reliable Riverlands have totally dried up. No one from Dorne, and Nouveau Riche from the Reach. They were desperate for some sort of positive image boost. Baelor is named after a Targaryen and they’ve abandoned it. So then, Ned Stark calls. And suddenly, the administers have a way to prove they aren’t being hijacked by the new money crowd.”

“Me.”

“Yep.” Jon said, “Because who could look at the likes of Sansa Stark, and not think that Baelor was a place for the most esteemed families and the smartest students.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I really don’t think I am.” he said, “You are the best thing here and the fact that they can’t see it is just wrong.”

“But you see it?”

“You are the most spectacular woman I’ve ever met,” He said. And to prove his point, he leaned forward and kissed her again.

“So, you want to keep doing this, after tonight?”

“I want to do just about everything with you. Take you to dinner and to movies and plays and parties.” He said, “But you’ll be home in a week, and we can definitely keep doing this.”

“And this fall, when we’re at school together?” She’d made her choice. She was going home, to stay.

His smile at the thought was beautiful. “Definitely then too.”

Sansa drifted to sleep on visions of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever, and I am not actually all that happy with it. But I wanted it done, and it is done. I hope it does offer something like an ending. 
> 
> Only the epilogue left.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick Epilogue. 
> 
> This ended up being much harder to write then I thought it was going to be. But I hope you liked it.

Southern parties were a fact of life. You couldn’t operate in Westerosi society at a certain level without them. Sansa Stark was of the North, but she operated in that level, and so sometimes she draped herself white and grey, decked herself out in wolves made of platinum and silver, and dazzled. 

Short of parties with her mother’s family in Riverrun, Baratheon parties were some of the most tolerable. Most of the family connections were personal, between Robert, Gendry, and Stannis. Normally when they were invited it was a gesture of friendship instead of some social hobnobbing. 

But the didn’t mean social hobnobbing didn’t happen at these sorts of parties. 

“Sansa Stark,” Cooed a voice She knew she’d never forget. “I thought I recognized you.”

She made sure her smile was firmly in place before turning to greet Margaery Lannister. 

“Margaery, how are you.” She clasped hands, but resisted any kind of more intimate physical greeting. 

“Good, good,” Margarey said, and Sansa couldn’t tell if she was masking discomfort or couldn’t feel Sansa’s hatred. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, I work with Dad,” Sansa said with a wave of her hand, “event planning, some media stuff.” _Vice President of Outside Engagement_ , she didn’t say, _I head the division, run public relations, event planning, social media. We’ve seen increases every quarter I’ve been in charge_. “How about you?”

“Oh, you know,” She raised her left hand to show off its third finger, and the diamond that rest there, surrounded by rubies and set in gold, “married life leaves so little time for anything else.” 

Which was bullshit, as far as Sansa was concerned. Sansa knew plenty of married women who didn’t work, but most of them headed up major charity projects in addition in addition to taking care of their children. 

She also knew Margaery headed up a food program known the world over. That is was absolutely drowning in scandals and abuse allegations of holding back aid for political and business gains for Highgarden that were very expensively covered up by her Grandmother’s public relations talents, was even besides that point. Enough rumors still leaked out that the charity wing of Stark Enterprises no longer did business with them. 

But Margaery was determined to prove something, apparently. 

“I am so sorry that you lost your first husband so tragically,” Sansa offered, “I am happy you were able to find happiness again, with his younger brother.” 

Margaery’s smile tensed, but not from pain, which would have made Sansa feel bad, but from embarrassment. She was not better at hiding her embarrassment ten years on. 

“It was truly devastating,” She said, like she almost expected Sansa to believe her. Like Sansa hadn’t known Petyr Baelish once upon a time, and hadn’t gotten the entire sorted story during those otherwise draining years, “But Tommen is the second light of my life.” 

“He was always a sweet _little_ boy,” Sansa said, and was just working out a cutting remark about her being too preoccupied with him if she didn’t have time for anything else, when a passing waiter, laden down with arbor gold, caught her eye. 

She politely flaged him down and made a point to reach for a glass with her left hand, and make sure that the diamond and platinum of her engagement ring glittered in the chandelier light. 

Margaery’s eye caught it. She was better at masking surprise then embarrassment, “Sansa, darling, I hadn’t heard you were married.” 

“Not yet,” She said with a demure smile, “We got engaged last year, but we are in no rush. We love each other, and love being together, weddings are such overdone productions. Plus you know my sister’s getting married this fall, and two weddings in a year is so gauche for one family.” 

Margaery took a ship of her own drink, and did not let her smile fall. But every one knew that she’d married Joffrey, he’d died, and she’d married his brother, 7 years her junior, less then a year later in another garish ceremony in the great sept. And to think people said that Northerners had no sense of propriety. 

“Well, that’s just so exciting,” She said, taking Sansa’s empty hand, “But I’m so glad I ran into you, I just met someone, and I just have to re introduce you to a blast from the past.” 

And she practically dragged Sansa across the room. 

Sansa just said she was engaged, and Margaery saw it fit to introduce her to a man. 

He was, at the very least, tall dark and handsome in most classical since. And when he caught sight of her, he raised a dark eyebrow in question. 

“Aemon, Darling,” Margaery said when they got to him, like they were told friends, “Do you remember Sansa Stark.”

“What?” He asked, frowning, but she caught his eyes going on the length of her body. When he met her eyes again, she smirked. 

“Oh, it’s been ten years, it isn’t surprising that you don’t.” Margaery said, “It's just silly teenage things. You took her to prom when we went to Baelor together.” She giggle as thought it was the funniest thing she could imagine. “I never did get the story of how you tricked him into coming.”

“She didn’t trick me,” Jon said, offended by the very notion, “She called and asked.” He glanced at her for a second, “She told me all about how her boyfriend dumped her for her best friend, and how she wouldn’t have minded but they went on a rather vicious bullying crusade against her when she’d rather have been left alone. And she asked if I’d come so she wouldn’t be sitting with a bunch of people on prom night who got some sort of sadistic pleasure out of a lonely eighteen year old’s pain.” 

Jon looked Margaery in the eye as he said it. Lots of that night was hazy ten years hence, but the magnitude of Jon’s burns had become something like Stark Family legends. So Jon remembered what he’d said that night, and what Margaery had done in the weeks and months leading up to it, and it was clear from her falling smile that Margaery did too. 

Sansa had no real desire to allow Margaery the chance to regain her footing, so instead she took her phone out of her clutch, and started rummaging through the pictures. “And of course you remember Jeyne Poole,” Sansa said, before thrusting her phone at Margaery’s face, to show Jeyne’s family, six strong and sure to grow again soon, smiling together on a yacht somewhere near the Summer Isles. 

“Is that...Theon Greyjoy?” Margaery asked, taken aback. Because Jeyne Poole and Theon Greyjoy, to Margaery’s mind, were on entirely different levels. Though according to her own chat, Margaery should have been much closer to Jeyne’s then Theon’s. 

“Of course,” Sansa agreed, “And their girls. They’ve been married for, what, 7 years.” 

“Sometimes I still think I’m working off the hangover from Theon’s stag party.” Jon said with a groan, but then he grinned, and took a pointer finger to Sansa’s phone, “Yara, the second oldest, my goddaughter, and totally worth any and all seven year hangovers.”

Sansa and Jon shared a laugh at the private joke, and Margaery looked a little lost. She was so use to making herself the center of any and all positive attention. 

And she had somehow spent the last ten years still blissfully unaware that Sansa Stark and Aemon Targaryen were cousins. It didn’t actually say good things about the Tyrell information gathering machine. 

“Sansa, there you are.” And she’d recognize her dad’s voice anywhere. He arrived with a smile and a friend, clapping Jon on the back and taking in their little group. 

“This is my daughter, Sansa,” He was saying to his Vale acquaintance, “she’s our VP of Engagement.”

But though Sansa smiled and shook hands, she watched Margaery out of the corner of her eye, flitting between Dad and Jon. 

Jon had always looked more like Dad then any of her brothers. They had the same straight brown hair and the same deep grey eyes. The same long face and square jaw. Sansa thought it looked better on Jon, and had been become an expert over the past ten years in really picking out the differences. 

But regardless, the fact that they were related was clear. And Margaery clearly did not know what to do with that fact. 

“And this is her fiance, and my favorite nephew, Aemon Targaryen,” The weirdness of hearing Jon introduced by his first name had not gone away either. But Jon shook hands with all due graces, and ignored Margaery’s jaw practically hitting the floor. 

Jon was talking about some of the work he was doing for Dad when Margaery finally found her voice, “You took your cousin to senior prom?” She said, all masks forgotten. 

Sansa affect a bemused expression, “Margaery, dear, that was ten years ago. Silly teenage stuff. High school doesn't matter anymore.” She gave an apologetic smile to Dad’s friend. “She’s a Tyrell.” She said. No where in Westeros was less forgiving to new money then the Vale. And the disapproving grunt that he gave meant he got the message. 

Dad and Jon gave identical snorts, and Sansa reached out to grasp Jon’s hands. 

She hated the South. But it wasn’t so bad with family.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [tumblr](http://darkmagyk.tumblr.com/).


End file.
